


how it was to feel alive

by ascxndent



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon Divergent, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, but also canon divergent ish from a fic too tho ???, horrible terrible shit happens but then a sorta happy ending, if that makes sense, trash shipping hell pt 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: they live; not by so much of a choice or plan, but more like unfortunate fate. ( or; a different turn of events regarding malachor. alternate ending to "cruelty" )





	1. luckless

**Author's Note:**

> damn daniel damn back at it again with the trash master makings. anyways, you only need to have read the last chapter of my previous fic "cruelty is all that we know of" in order to understand the references.

_can we skip the past near-death cliches where my heart restarts as life replays?_   
_all i want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed_   
_( oh god, i want to feel again. )_

.

.

.

they live.

not necessarily by choice or by plan, but more like an act of consequence by misfortune and fate. it’s nothing new, really, because all their lives have consisted of nothing but strange paradoxes; to claim to be fearless of death, yet build the confidence in their abilities to never think of it as a possible option anyways. to anticipate a gruesome end in their future, as long as they never think of it and only focus on surviving on a day by day basis. a supposed inability to tolerate the other, yet the idea of a permanent separation secretly unbearable for either one.

neither can seem to decide if they feel insulted or welcoming relief when at last minute their mission to malachor is delayed, then cancelled all at once; for whatever reason vader takes it upon himself to handle the matters alone as though there’s something personal involved ( and her name is ahsoka tano ) that he and only he alone can handle it. incompetence or inexperience would be the degrading remark to bear on their files -- but plainly they look at it as an abrupt curve from what could have been an inevitable execution.

she hears it was a carnage down there; she can’t even bring herself to smirk over the idea of others enduring well deserved misery, no matter how much the wicked pride in her soul wanted to see a form of horrible vengeance strike ahsoka in particular. something about the thought of malachor causes her to wince, she never asks for the details. _what the hell is wrong with me?_ well whatever occurred is irrelevant, seeing as vader ended up returning anyways. so, she does need to ask and she excuses it as being disappointed because she was not there to witness it.

he begs to differ, offering a different viewpoint because the whispers travel like wildfire winds; silent but damaging. they say vader returned in shambles, a wheezing and weakened being that ruins the image of a stoic inhumane monster wielding immense power. not that he ever asks or strives to find out for himself, but he’ll keep to himself that slight amusement with righteousness ( did he not say, after all, the threat was growing stronger? ) that he forewarned. it is nothing worth celebrating about.

he doesn’t like to think of how that could have been them in his position. he doesn’t like to think that they wouldn’t be in the same situation, because the chances are they would have never come back alive. 

so she never asks and he never says more than what needs to be said.

( now, _now_ there’s the fucking irony -- now they’re starting to act like imperial subordinates; unquestioning and ignorant for the sake of happiness. )

.

.

.

the downfall seems to happen faster than anticipated.

first, their siblings die. not in a one by one fashionable order, of course, because this is unspoken war and nothing ever goes as plan; it’s always a messy end down to few choices of dying in combat or dying on your knees before your betters.

some are as good as dead, because they ran. ( she can’t help but almost hope that the eighth remains unfounded; he was so little once. he admired them both. he would undoubtedly be assigned for them to handle he butchering. ) and once upon a time the mere concept of abandonment was a horrible, hushed thought that remained in minds at the latest hour. after all, the almighty and all knowing empire with its endless weaved web connections would always find those who tried to run. but priorities are different, no longer fixated on runaway guard dogs. _everything’s_ changed. the impractical becomes practical, liberties are taken for granted more freely, the empire’s bound to a plundering snowball effect -- one mistake becomes many in a gradual period of time.

 _their_ empire. it crumbles apart slowly but surely before their eyes and they’re helpless to do anything about it, not because no one has bothered to ask but because … because it’s almost as if they don’t want to. the bystander effect takes the form of weighted chains around their ankles restraining them from needlessly entering the scene ( is it a combination of fear and common sense? ) and dying for a worthless cause. _worthless_. he reflects on that rather harsh word, very much aware that there was a time where if it was said aloud he would potentially lose his tongue, but such a time no longer seems to exist. the insurgents are boastful and the stiffest of imperial officers seem to pale, keeping to themselves more often and rarely voicing much of their propagandized pride anymore.

it was never about pride and glory for either of them at the beginning and it never morphed into that properly either; it was about two screaming children snatched from their families, reborn by the ashes of places almost called home twice, and brainwashed with a paralyzing fear that suspended their disbelief -- that they, body and mind as a whole, belonged entirely to the empire; thoughts of treason, mere thoughts within their minds, no longer were theirs to have. it was about the ugliness of fear; how it had conquered and controlled them both, mercilessly teaching them through bloodied knuckles and broken ribs and other children their age quickly become corpses, that they too could warp this fear to their advantage. it was something they became drunk off of, despite being made aware of their limitations in their stances. ( _inhumane_. the whispers do no more harm than mere surface wounds. ) it was not their everything but it was at least something to hold on to, for a time.

malachor had been their breaking point, it seems.

.

.

.

things are quiet, for a time.

it is as if a silence has befallen the stars, where hours turn into days and these days are nothing but nonchalant and banal business; they find themselves stuck waiting, unsure of for what exactly, maybe just waiting for something to happen if at all.

there’s an angle of softness which reveals itself, in this unusual circumstance, through her when she is this unusually quiet; the predatory ice, the steel-willed glare in those eyes of her seems to have dimmed ( exhaustion. insomnia. overthinking. she’s come up with a new excuse each passing day ) in the meantime, when she keeps to herself.

( they’re not children, no, but he does often forget how young she is until these moments -- unspoken and withdrawn; there’s something haunting about the youth that emerges on her face. )

this quietness does not equate to peace. it is in fact all too familiar for them, it only has one meaning; an inevitable loud crash will strike someplace, somehow. something is coming, and when it does it intends to make its presence known and not easily forgotten.

.

.

.

he’s thought of it, once. twice. dreamt of it, perhaps.

( of being the last ones. of outlasting. of conquering. of the slim chance of freedom. )

not her. never her. why would she? why rip her from these horrid badlands which -- like it or not -- she is convinced she _belongs_ here, that this unruly nature lurking within her is only the beautiful revelation and hideous truth at best. what else is she, what else could she possibly be if not ( simplified in terms ) a killer? in the lion’s den she is an outcast wolf, unwanted but respected for what its worth; and while the lions hold their heads high up with pride, the wolves emerge with bloodied coats and snapping jaws, relinquished by the thrill of the kill that brings the kingdom as a whole one step closer to victory. whether they liked it or not, she was just as important ( just as powerful. just as -- no. more frightening than them. any of them. ) and that was that.

besides, in spite of the obvious chaos, she’s still convinced they’ll both be long dead before their empire falls.

.

.

.

she keeps her distance, for a time. because of the weeks passing since malachor. because of the brush with death ( the goosebumps on the back of her neck that have yet to leave from when it was lurking behind ) and because of everyone who ran off or died. everyone but _him_. because she just cannot seem to cope properly anymore and in order to avoid this admittance, she places herself on the self destructive path of isolation.

he tries to reach out to her, tries to touch her, something he has not tried since the odd conversation before malachor. still she unconsciously winces, mostly because she was not prepared for the stimulation, but still guilt causes him to immediately pull away. he tries to speak except that his throat is constrained, at a loss of words and he can’t figure out what it is. there’s this unusual sentimental feeling rearing its ugly face again towards them, softening their view of the other, causing him to yearn to want to be the solution to whatever problem is bothering her.

( he’s selfish for it, he knows, for simply expecting her to eventually come around and tell him; not just because she promised she would do so sometime, but because he likes to think they know each other best and who else could she tell? )

he’s desperate. she’s distant. he’s frustrated. she’s unresponsive. all complicated emotions that neither one is capable of controlling or handling properly; it always was a cycle with them, eventually their troubles will just surface again, or so he figures.

that night he wakes to her agony.

.

.

.

is it grief or horror that renders him slack-jawed and incapable of speaking? is it dismay or anger ( why? why didn’t you tell me? ) or this ache tingling in his chest, a painful realization that she had decided for whatever reason he could not be trusted to handle a secret like this; until he remembers she did. just not at the time then. she couldn’t. they could never ---

“ . . . malachor.” stupid. stupid. it’s so painfully stupid, how that’s the first word that escapes his mouth when he regains a voice. a recollection of that infamous previous conversation beforehand. and now, now he can’t properly see it but he knows it. oh, he knows it all too well. she doesn’t even need to say it.

there’s a silence and then she replies with grit teeth and bleary eyes; “ -- doesn’t matter anymore.”

( it’s late. it’s dark. stay quiet. they used to be so paranoid, so cautious. _ha_. cautious. what does it matter? where’s the use of it? and just who exactly is left to hear anymore? )

he’s at her side within seconds by mere instinct where words fail, and by the time he collects her into his arms there’s this strange, hideous noise -- something not quite a sob or a scream but something in between -- and she doesn’t even realize that it’s coming right from her mouth. she can’t bring herself to notice bloodied handprints unintentionally left on his tunic when she grips onto it, when she buries her head into his neck as she naturally would, to shield herself from the snickering universe ( which always did seem to have a fondness for her misery ) and goes numb; almost numb. because she’s still all too aware of that wretched pain twisting itself, coming from within and staining her thighs. it surrounds them, practically suffocates; _red_ . _red_ . _red_.

.

.

.

they don’t speak of it.

( they can’t; there’s nothing to talk about anymore. )

neither sleeps, neither snaps at the other’s much needed display of affection; she’d like to feel, or at least feel something other than that. she doesn’t think of anything else besides that. not what happened or what may, not of who they are or the present or what tomorrow may bring ( failing to realize that tomorrow has come ) she can’t think much on those complex, difficult thoughts. her skin is caked and she cannot bear to open her eyes and look, cannot stomach the truth she’ll have to burn her clothes and act as though nothing happened. -- and wasn’t that what she was doing beforehand? just going about as though nothing was happening? was she not about to head to her death on malachor at some point? -- and live with the guilt that she was too heartless, too selfish for any of this nonsense anyways. 

he says nothing. only occasionally shifts and kisses her hairline, otherwise an unmoving statue for her to do as she pleases so long as she lets him hold her.

( anger dissipates, transforms into sorrow. guilt on both ends, knotted together and binding. maybe, from a sick perspective, that’s what love is supposed to mean. )

.

.

.

( this. this is the price they pay: for all their arrogance. for all their boasting. for all their sins. for being playing a pivotal role in destroying families, snatching other children away from loving parents arms’ just as someone had once done to them. this is balanced. _this is only fair_. )

.

.

.

 

 _can’t you see?_ , one would often feel the temptation to say ( _laugh_ . and not without tears streaming hysterically down their faces ) regarding this rotten predicament. _look, look at what this is doing to us. it’s taking pieces of us. and it’s killing us_.

once, when thinking of their deaths, it was an atypical and rather gory image; an end, glorified hopefully, in a long dragged out battle against an unimaginable superior foe. perhaps there would be sliced limbs or sprawled organs meshed between where cloth begins and their skin ends, molded together by horrendous burnt wounds. and this was a time in when they were younger, when it was common ( it was practically encouraged ) to accept this for what it was; an honor, at best, to serve until the end for their empire. but this end was envisioned with a physical death, and while brutal, it is beginning to look rather pleasant and far quicker than this.

( besides, their arrogance has long dwindled; they keep to themselves in the hopes of being forgotten -- otherwise, how long before their emperor _truly_ tires of them once and for all? )

.

.

.

for once, they decide, that’s not how they’d like to die. in fact, that’s not how they want to die at all. no, they don’t want to die _at all_.

it’s not their first choice made ( that vow was spoken with a breathless proclaim long ago; _let them find us_. ) but it is undoubtedly their boldest.

.

.

.

so, they run.

.

.

.


	2. strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first, they were rumors. now they will become nothing more than nameless ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [jazz hands gestures]

_i don’t know what we’re doing, i don’t know what we’ve done_ _  
_ _but the fire is coming, so i think we should run._

_( oh, this is suicide; but you can’t see the ropes. )_

.

_._

_._

they run.

it’s a rather anticlimactic matter that takes place; there’s a lack of attention, no dramatic encore that leaves them with a single choice -- there was a choice, at a time; _we could fake our deaths_ . it was considered since it seemed like the only sound and logical option, their only sense of assurance that no one would bother looking for them. but where was the use in it when, at this point, they’re just about as good as dead? perhaps this could be reworded differently -- _they got away_. just like the handful of others who were given the same option to flee while vader recovered. except this was less calculated and more impulse based, a solution sought out in an hour of desperation after something inside them snapped at the same time. lately there’s a pattern with them making irrational, careless decisions and the fact that they ( only just ) find a way to recover is not taken into consideration; that was all because of luck.

( luck is the reason they’re alive. luck is the reason they were never caught. every single thing to do with them involves luck. )

they like to think of it more as slipping into the shadows, remaining hidden. it was nothing new, it’s something they specialize in actually; their _family_ , call it what one may will, was talented in remaining obscure and unseen. much like many of the core details of the empire’s functioning, they were nothing but disputed rumors spoken in hushed tones between superstitious citizens or low-ranking officers. nearly all of their existence was disputed.

and now, now they will become nothing more than nameless ghosts.

.

.

.

( luck. luck will guide them by pure instinct or hapless, impulsive guesses. and one day all that luck will run out on them. )

.

.

.

perhaps, _perhaps_ it is not as doomed as it looks. others tried and failed in the past, and some tried again and again until the empire’s tolerance for them quickly dried up. most are too afraid, but then after malachor someone made it after all. frantic hours transpired into wasted days spent searching which progressed into weeks without progression. two standard moon cycles since and now no one speaks of the eighth brother because he might as well be dead; _idiot_ , some remark with a tone of bitterness that comes across more as envy rather than hate. they think of him as too young, too naive to survive in the hardships of the galaxy.

he was arrogant, yes, but obviously smart enough to outsmart everyone and disappear into the dusk suddenly and without warning. let it be said, there’s something admirable about those steel wits. in their case, neither of the two reflect on it as bravery. he was never brave. noble and, at times, the stupidly willing volunteer willing to go headfirst, but not brave. he was _afraid_. and finally that fear had reached its limit, unwilling to allow the body to keep going forward and put himself at risk. he ran because he was afraid.

well, what sets them apart from him and his fears? what is it that makes them braver? was it all because they risked their lives for a few intimate nights, because dared to selfishly think of themselves as the only two worth the galaxy? because of conceited whispers and shared laughter, uncaring if they were ever found? they forget, as does everyone else, how _young_ he is. ( how can they? can they not remember themselves in his place at a time -- especially when they really aren’t that much older than him. ) either way he dies, but maybe there is credit due for him choosing to try and prolong his inevitably doomed lifespan by fending for himself.

at least he’s willing to try. and perhaps that in itself makes him far braver than either of them, than any single member of the inquisitorius combined.

.

.

.

“i think we should run.” he whispers one night, pressed with a sort of urgency she’s never heard before from him. it’s not an option, it’s not a suggestion. it sounds more like a feverish task, one that should be done now before it is too late. she stares agape, wide eyes in disbelief, but does not argue -- much as she’d like to ( she likes to think herself the smarter of the two, she tries to excuse it as him spewing foolishness ) but right now, it looks like he is the more observant of the pair.

she doesn’t ask why, she already knows why. she knows time is running out for them, for their entire order as a whole. it will dissipate and be disbanded soon, or so they’ll say in what few records exist regarding them, and then those records will be destroyed. it was never their choice to become this, yet they had chosen to worsen it -- it cannot be helped what has happened to them, but to inflict this misery onto others is no excuse -- and now, now they can choose to leave, to live before someone else makes that decision for them.

still, at that point in time, she replies venomously; “i think you’ve gone _mad_.”

.

.

.

( but she follows anyways. )

.

.

.

she can’t pinpoint the moment when exactly, there are no surviving memories -- only interchangeable memories blurred altogether, it’s to a point where she wonders which moments were accurate or not. she can remember the justification of it ( it was not her idea. it was his. she doesn’t want this, she’d rather stay. not because she is afraid, but because it is just and right. a sense of belonging exists. ) and the dismissive quota that it isn’t defecting; they are by no means joining the rebellion, the thought of that would make her laugh if the situation wasn’t tense. those bright-eyed fools with their annoyingly persistent attitudes of optimism, all the trouble those leaders are worth and all the crimes done on their part -- no. no, contrary to their own misled beliefs, they really are no better than the empire.

they can fight each other out, for all she cares. they can kill each other in the struggle for domineering power and she simply would not care. by the time this occurs, the state of temporary peace and disbelief ends because there are no surviving opposing sides left to fight in this neverending war, the two of them will already have long disappeared.

each step forward causes her stomach to lurch, the temptation to take two back grows. something within must remained bottled, or else she’ll find herself wanting to claw at his face for even suggesting this idea, let alone going through with it. _your fault_ , and yet she follows. and all her thoughts are a paradoxical mess -- how can someone fear the idea of death yet accept it? how is it perfectly acceptable to supposedly come to terms with it in this heinous occupation of hers, yet loathe the idea of being killed while trying to escape. is it the humiliation in such a pathetic death that irritates her? in that case then, where is the glory in being brutally sliced to bits on malachor as all the rumors go, as all the explicit nightmares that her tainted imagination tries to invent?

( don’t think; _just run_. )

_coward_ , her cruel conscience sneers. _you coward_.

.

.

.

here’s a joke: two ( former? no, not quite, you don’t exactly ever stop being the skill that you were born to perfect at. ) killers somehow sneak away and catch a departing ship on the day of, disappearing into a crowd of refugees and cowards and survivors and those not without guilt all the same. no identification or ticket of any sort, just a mere subtle wave of the hand and nothingness. they escape.

 

the punchline: they’re working on that, awaiting the moment this all goes horribly wrong and they’re noticed. maybe they’ll get a laugh out of that for going mad, for being so willing as to try.

 

( but they’re not laughing. )

.

.

.

they keep to themselves, never demonstrating any public displays of affection ( and for what? risk scrutiny that could escalate to violence on another party -- since force knows, neither one’s patience is great. ) but never dwelling far from the other or without them; the general consensus from passby glances of wanderlust strangers encountered must be that they are some kind of somber married couple who found each other after seeing too much and losing too much all at once. no proper civilian clothes for the given moment, only cloaks to conceal themselves when huddled in corners -- nothing but brooding colors, one would think them as a pair in _mourning_.

( they don’t talk about it; she won’t let him speak of it, not even now. )

.

.

.

he doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until she slumps against his side, her head making use of his shoulder as some pillow; albeit, a horrible one considering muscle and bone. at the slightest movement or jolt, she will only bob. never stir. he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, because while being no better of a state than she is, he knows she needs this. he doesn’t mind serving as a statute, not even during the pins and needles effect that inevitably follows from doing so. this is not the first time he has done this for her, for _only_ her. be it a pillow or punching bag or whatever else somehow exemplifies a comfort source.

( _anything you ask of me_ , he told her once with utter conviction in his voice where useless eyes fail and she seemed undecided between amused skepticism or bewilderment. it might as well have been a marriage proposal. _i will do it for you_. )

there’s something so deceivingly harmless looking about her when she is in this state; her face pale and gaunt, but features still and relaxed. all traces of anger disintegrate aside from an unconscious twitch of a scowl he’s half-convinced is only a natural instinct. normally she is a light sleeper, always on alert and in favor of avoiding dreams at all possible costs. he sympathizes, drained himself from remaining alert of their surroundings and everyone within it. that’s likely how he will remain for the time being, caught between keeping alert of the outside world and finding the time to note the delicate details of her facial tattoos.

( sleep wasn’t a realistic option for him at this point anyways. )

.

.

.

there’s not much of a plan, not much to go on from that moment thereafter; a question was posed on whether or not to destroy the remnants of their past -- until both found themselves laughing ( if only, for a brief moment ) because _what past?_ it was stolen from them years and years before, there’s nothing left at all. there’s nothing left to burn, nothing left to bury ( no. not their weapons. never. they’ll keep them hidden and keep them close, but you _never_ leave your knife behind even after leaving the lion’s den alive. ) and there’s no one looking for them anyways -- they might as well be dead.

_names_ . they’ll need names. a false identification or an alias to comfortably fall back on ( they cannot solve all their problems with a _literal_ wave of a hand -- they might as well oust themselves then and there ) but only blanks are drawn into the sand, only silence falls over. the idea of even thinking of one is somehow uncomfortable, because even if it’s fake it’s still a whole different _identity_ \-- a different person, a different being, someone that they are not. their birth names are long lost, tarnished with the rest of lacking childhood memories, so those aren’t an option. yes, their titles were simplistic and there was an unintentional crude joke which came about ( of fucking your _sibling_ and going against an entire order ) but it still gave them a sense of belonging.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it? people are not supposed to belong to an order, to anything or anyone else but themselves. they suppose they should be feeling some sort of relinquished independence, flourishing in this newfound prospect of apparently liberating themselves, but they don’t. there is only unease and war-torn wariness lurking, and since that first night, has been depriving them of sleep. there’s still a voice echoing in the back of their consciences insisting that they have done something wrong. _go back_ , it urges even when that option no longer exists.

they temporarily settle on namelessness ( more commonly known as giving in to procrastination ) because there is no use in becoming someone else for anybody else. no one ever did anything for them beforehand, they escaped single-handedly, so why at this point would they feel the need to rely on anyone else? they only have each other and a careful method of communicating ( of needing the other ) where words aren’t always even necessary -- years of practice, from subtle nods indicating across the room to meet in private.

now more than ever has one needed the other, that they only need each other.

.

.

.

_doesn’t it get better from this point?_ , they can’t help but wonder after finally being able to breathe that sigh of relief for being undiscovered. _shouldn’t it?_ ( patience was never their virtue. ) it is as though there is some sort of reward awaiting them, as though they are even deserving when they have yet to atone for their crimes committed before. ( selfishness being one of their many, many falls. )

they lived, but how many others did not because of them?

.

.

.

( they lived. they’re alive when they should not be. and the universe seems determined to punish them for that. )

.

.

.


	3. killers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they've left the lion's den for the company of vultures; maybe they'll never change, maybe they'll never learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i prOMISE A HAPPY ENDING IS COMING ( EVENTUALLY ) BUT UNTIL THEN --

_ slowly, then all at once, the dark clouds depart and the damage is done _ _   
_ _ so pardon the dust while this all settles in with a broken heart _

.

.

.

they don’t sleep.

they find themselves counting days instead in part of an effort to become mindlessly numb, to be as close as it gets to being asleep -- this bout of insomnia plagues them and over time it becomes apparent that it is incurable; years of remorselessness, years of cruelty inflicted upon others, years spent without ever even contemplating guilt have all finally come together to haunt them at last. even when it shouldn’t, even when they hold on to that claim that they feel nothing regarding their pasts ( what is done is done and will never be undone. ) so it isn’t as though it hangs over their consciousness like a cloud of guilt.

still, she wakes up screaming most nights.

and he’s not even sure what the worst part of is -- the nightmares, or the times without them which are only because they never sleep at all. it scares him, because these always happens without warning ( she never stirs, always still -- frighteningly still, save for light breathing. so sometimes he watches, out of paranoia. ) she bolts awake and screams in a cold sweat gripping at the sheets. he never asks, though tempted he may be, somehow he figures he can take a rough guess and be somewhat close; either something that happened or something that was supposed to happen to them.

_ we should be dead _ . she dreams of crimson blades at her throat, the heat of the surface simmering and inching closer and closer.  _ we should have died earlier _ . some nights she wakes with a gasp and both hands at her throat, keeping it together after swearing it was removed from her head, and suddenly regaining the ability to breathe.  _ we shouldn’t be alive _ . she is a child again, with a predatory gleam in those gold tainted eyes and fresh blood painting her robes. she is youth, vicious and unpredictable when she draws her swords into the back of a sibling.  _ we won’t live very long _ . there are children like her, only now she is the one who has snatched them, and in the end it was all for nothing because they’re predetermined useless or weak and die anyways. all that time spent -- all that effort, she used to say, laughingly -- gone to waste.  _ we don’t deserve this _ .

but whatever attempts her conscience is having a go at in trying to make her feel guilt is all in vain; this concept is nothing new. she knows they are selfish beings who have not earned this place, who have ruthlessly killed others who ought to be in their place. and best believe her, she has seen far, far worse. and she’s done even worse than that.

( still, vulnerability is a paralyzing disease; she screams anyways. )

.

.

.

“do you regret it? any of it?” he asks one night, and she knows he isn’t referring to the actions taken in order to end up in this miserable predicament of runaways. there’s more genuine curiosity than legitimate concern. it’s because he too, suffers an ongoing back-and-forth battle with morality -- it is part of all that he has left; remnants of a discarded life, memories that surge back at inconvenient timing even after everything is done and over with, and her -- wondering what this all makes them in the end.

she’s quiet. it isn’t quite shame or guilt that withholds her tongue, though she’s less haughty on admitting what thrill she found in everything they did beforehand. 

she envisions this conversation instead as a trial suddenly; her imagination does not need to run far, it’s not that far of a possibility. if the empire ever finds them she highly doubts they’ll let them live long enough for such dramatics to occur but oh, how she likes to hope so -- wouldn’t they at least be the slightest bit interested as to how or why two left, two oh so promising killers? won’t they all ask, have you killed? and she’ll laugh and smile and say in a sickly sweet tone _ of course! _ and they’ll go down the list; have you cheated? did you ever steal or lie or manipulate? did you fuck your brother? and again, true to her word and keeping to that ear to ear grin and honey-coated voice she’ll say;  _ guilty _ . 

it happened. it has already happened and there is nothing that can be done to undo it.

“no. we just won’t speak of it though.” is all she replies, dark eyes kept to the floor, thinking of every screaming mother begging for them to spare her child, of the last look of defeat in someone else’s eyes, of faces that came and went and were never seen again. 

she doesn’t speak of it; the nightmares continue anyways.

.

.

.

he, too, suffers his own nightmares. there is always gore and despair and suffering and always something worse that happens than the last. he is stoic and still, he never makes a sound unlike she, but he never speaks of them either.

his solution is simple. ( he gets very little sleep, daunting in and out of bouts of consciousness -- avoiding the vulnerability that comes with sleep. )

.

.

.

blasters are frustratingly petty and unusually complicated pieces of junk to adapt to, but nevertheless they learn. ( with occasional  _ assistance  _ of the force in manipulating the aim -- even after firing ) the frustration is not worth the risk a fracture in this carefully constructed identity of theirs -- that is, the one which they lack. in these badlands they’ve found no one asks for anyone’s name until there’s a reason, until there’s a promising pay involved. there are are no loyalties to anyone but your own self, perhaps a friend or two, and ain’t nobody’s a snitch ( or so they say ) but anonymous drops of info to the empire to fetch an extra bit at the end of the day makes for an exception.

they’ve left the lion’s den for sure, only to wander to the remnants of where life once flourished and only vultures remain; with preying eyes awaiting and tight lined mouths for some, loose cannons on others ( with or without drinks ) the threats spewed are not empty. make no mistake, these are killers.

they’ve surrendered from their previous lives -- but have they really changed? where is the difference exactly in disbanding a title in their names but not the occupation associated with it? 

_ mercenaries _ . there is an apparent difference in that term that sets it apart from bounty hunting. it’s laughable ( she’s convinced it’s just the spelling ) but there’s a sense of professionalism in the name, it draws ears and perks up attention. at least they look the part, what with dark and brooding and bodies marred with scars all over like canvas paintings, there is not a soul who could doubt that they have done bad things. luckily for them, morality around here doesn’t work like a black and white picture of judgement; it’s not necessarily bad, perhaps it’s what had to be done. perhaps it was something no one else was willing to do ( so what? does that make them heroes in some sickening sense… they won’t toy with that thought ) or simply because they could and wanted to.

maybe they’ll never learn, maybe they’ll never stop. at least they flourish in their specialty with a pretty pay even despite their special circumstances ( certain systems, where imperial control reigns, are off limits regardless of price -- this draws a few brows to raise in curiosity; but no one ever finds a wanted poster in their alias names. ) and dare they say it, at least continue basking in the thrill of being in control of someone else’s fate. _ it’s not bounty hunting _ , she reminds herself when in doubt, _ it’s private hiring _ . but she damn near looks like one when she takes a likening to a certain rifle from the black markets ( illegally there for sale; illegally obtained. by that, with batting lashes and serenading voice accompanying an easy mind trick. ) to do the trick on some up and coming gangster who pissed off the wrong guy who knows a guy who knows a hutt. the context drama bores her, they only need a name and a face after all.

he will give credit where it is due; these vultures are bold, he can’t help but hold back a snort when an offer and a holo is tossed about featuring some imperial politician. usually no one spectacular, but is somewhat impressive these anarchists want a head start on the feast long before the rebellion or justice or whoever claims them first. he notices the excited gleam in her eyes, that unspoken plea to him in the way she turns to him --  _ can we?  _ it’s as if a child were begging for an expensive toy, unaware of important needs and priorities. he is the one who has to shut down the thought before it progresses into anything else ( mostly because he knows her all too well; she’ll act on her own otherwise if he stays silent ) with assuring promises that they’ll have in with their own share.

force forbid, the wrong imperial general who held his head too high walks down the wrong alleyway. nevermind the context or the circumstances, or even the how’s-why’s, he’ll gladly stand by and watch her do as she pleases before having his strike.

( special occasions like those, he believes are more than well deserving and fair to unveil their crimson blades once again. if only for old times’ sake. )

come to think of it, perhaps they should have buried theirs. for safety’s sake or maybe even sanity, during those times when they’re tempted to use them once more. but their lightsabers will always be a piece of them, one of the few things they ever had a choice in ( crafted by their hands ) and the only thing worth being proud over. the beauty of it in everything it did, even when held in the hands of horrible people who used them for malicious intentions -- even to purposely scald the other’s skin; to mark the other -- there was still something so undeniably beautiful about every bit of it. they deserve better than to be kept tucked away or hidden, locked away collecting dust over time.

to them, there’s nothing more sorrowful of a sight than a majestic weapon gone to waste.

( is that… is that  _ wrong  _ of them to think of something so minuscule as quite possibly the saddest thing for them? ) 

.

.

.

well maybe they can’t say for sure, because they’re busy drinking their sorrows away.

( all those credits earned might as well have been set aflame; what a waste. )

the problem is she can’t quite trace what the feeling of sorrow it is, though she knows where it is; in the center of her chest, nowhere near her heart, but a slow-working burn spreading like a virus all across her body. she struggles for breath, and her solution of burning her throat with the strongest liquors whipped up does her no good. or maybe the problem lies in her inability to cope with complex feelings, especially those that don’t work out to whatever it is that she wants. sorrow does not fall under her criteria where hate, rage, and deception linger.

and what could she possibly grieve over anyhow? the losses made in her bets, even when the profits from the aftershock were promising.

she can’t make it leave, this pain, so she’ll place herself in a state where she feels nothing at all. ( apparently she did not get the memo that the effects of alcohol work exactly in the opposite manner ) shot after shot, her petite frame should work against her but she’s had her fair share of practice, she can hold her own. she always was a firecracker, but now those sparks have worn themselves weary; gold tainted eyes now a lackluster shade with clouded vision and her mouth, normally twisted in the shape of a scowl, is agape but unusually reserved. 

there’s still some fight left in her, but only directed towards him whenever he dare try and pull her away from her fix; he tries. he truly does. watching her make herself sick, atop of the insomnia which already plagues her, is not a fun combination to deal with. trying to make sense with her when she wants something is not a pleasant task, not when in this state she’s more than happy to cause a scene. ( again. ) his arms are riddled with still-healing claw wounds on his arms from dragging her back for her sake. and  _ force  _ how he hates it when -- not often, but not uncommon -- some punk who thinks they’ve got a spine on ‘em or the bartender with the wandering eye tries to intervene, with a _ leave the l’il lady be _ ; he is so tired of repeating worn out excuses that he is only her concerned husband.

it’s not like he cares what anyone else has to say, though he wonders -- with cynical amusement -- how many eavesdropping strangers must think to themselves, with pity or disdain just what ungodly circumstances they’ve been through to end up like that. what did the empire do ( it’s always the empire,  _ always  _ ) to ruin yet another pair of lives? he’d laugh on a good day about that, over that understatement.

( perhaps what amuses him more is how many seem to easily believe the story of them being married; no details, no questions asked. what affection do they have to show for as proof -- ? or is it the fact that their arguments are so bitter, so personal against the other. how sad, how common these days. )

.

.

.

he doesn’t think much on it; the way that  _ my wife  _ rolls off so easily from his tongue like he’s waited years to have the opportunity to say it. it has a pleasant ring to it, but their melody rolls on a different tempo with one too many sour notes. it’s not for them to have. 

besides, he can’t envision her in white; and  _ no _ , that has little to do with his lacking vision.

.

.

.

sometimes, the effort isn’t worth it.  _ can’t beat her, join her _ , he decides.

he shouldn’t. he should be the better of the two and try to set an example, to try and remain keenly aware in the event of danger. he should be better. ( those days have long left where he used to pull rank on her when she tested his patience -- parading it about, to think himself higher than her. ) he should be better for her. but he too is tired, his arms are still stinging and still healing, and he too is hurting. doesn’t she ever consider that? maybe, maybe not. and maybe it isn’t because she’s a selfish creature, because how can she be faulted for being used to seeing him as nothing but a stoic rock to depend upon?

one. two. five.  _ eleven  _ was a record that quickly transformed into a mistake in the span of hours at one time. they’ve placed themselves in a messy cycle where when the paranoia starts off as too much, they drink ‘cause they can -- and it’s stupid, it’s fast, it’s dangerous -- until they’re stupid wretched messes who don’t cry, just grimace over thoughts concerning the past ( and sometimes the present, never the future; that piece of mentality about not expecting to live long never left them from the inquisitorius ) and what to make of themselves now. 

every now and then there’s stupid, atrocious sounding laughter over ridiculous things neither one can remember -- common trivial memories of their shared past, recalling the sheer idiocy of nameless siblings that they can’t quite remember the number of ( and don’t want to; when they remember, their smiles drop because that person is usually a long rotting corpse ) or they laugh when one or the other says something so absurdly, unbelievable affectionate sounding. it’s sickening, it’s surely for laughs.

“i love you,” he slurs to her one night in a tone so serious so suddenly, and her giggling glee disintegrates the second she can tell he means it. it’s not the first time he’s said it but it’s been so long since she last heard it ( she can’t recall, they don’t fuck tenderly and affectionately -- which, every now and then beforehand, they  _ did  _ actually -- it’s always quick and rough and clumsy now. ) and she waits on those words with a drink in hand, delicate fingers wrapped around the shot glass as if she’s being polite and showing she’s listening -- even when her ears are already ringing now -- and waiting.

( she’s still so beautiful, he’s mesmerized. even when those dark, dark eyes look to him so condescendingly, impatient and unfocused. )

“but you --  _ you  _ \-- ” he starts again, a tone of accusation lingering. large, calloused fingers cup her chin, bring her face close, closer. he could kiss her if he’d like, but what good would it do for either one? “you  _ only  _ love me when you hurt me.  _ why? -- _ why are you like this?”

she almost killed him the first time he told her those dangerous words; he gave her heart and she sank her teeth into it, devoured it and him whole. his body is never a blank canvas in her hands -- it always ends with red, he doesn’t need to see to know -- and though he is still alive, still here like her, she treats him like a vessel; her ghost to harbor onto after abandoning their past, her echo to scream her frustrations to, nevermind whispers of sweet nothings ( however untrue they may be ) in his ear.

she is astonished --  _ hurt _ , because of him, for the first time in the longest time.

and she has no answer for him either.

.

.

.


	4. bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kindness is a stranger to each other ; their bodies familiar to the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / sorta nsfw towards the end ayy.

_so tell me another beautiful lie, tell me everything i want to hear_   
_won’t you lay here by my side?; i want to fuck away all my fears_ _  
( no our hands will never be clean, but at least we can hold each other )_

.

.

.

they should be happy.

at least, that’s what the pressing stigma of the force in their consciousness is screaming towards them. it’s a summarization of the overwhelming chaos surrounding them, in just about everywhere, these masses of celebration and an aura of sheer joy. there are lights and colorful arrays of victory ribbons and bouquets tossed freely into the air, quickly forgotten. strangers who never exchange names share spontaneous kisses in the moment, the youngest of children partake because the mood is infectious and not because they understand the significance of this event, whereas the elderly grace small subtle smiles -- relieved to be alive long enough for this very moment.

( and as for them, they’re still young -- in some respects, in some angles under moonlight -- young enough to faintly recall the existence of a before, but old, old enough to know every bit of the after. )

the empire has fallen.

.

.

.

it starts before any proclamation of victory, before the stories spread like eager wildfires, before any other soul aside from those present in the waking moment of glory on the battlefield know for sure. it begins as a crushing weight on their chests subsiding, a pain that has existed for as long as either one can remember, only for it to suddenly break. suddenly, it is mortal and it too can die -- after all this time, after how many years now?, concepts like invincibility and immortality are shrugged or scrutinized anyways by them -- and yet, for the first time, it’s as if they can truly breathe.

gone.

dare they probe and wonder? every decision revolving around the usage of the force has always been a tender and difficult one, handled cautiously and carefully. there’s this fear that has never left them from their days in the inquisitorius that their masters are capable of discovering them through even the slightest meager of activity in the force. in a time before the priorities had shifted from fear to holding its footing, such maintenance was possible in the empire. when weeks turned into months and suddenly months add into years, it should have been decided by then by any normal outlaw that all attention about them had since departed. but they were special, in some strange light. ( all of them expendable, yet they belonged only to the empire. ) still, they were unconvinced. someone had to be out there looking for them, and someone would come. and if they did, on the offhand chance they were found, they had no intentions of being dragged back like wounded prisoners to be finished off.

( they die either way; but at least there’s a _choice_. isn’t that what this was all about? a choice made by themselves? )

that dreaded day never came. which is a relief, knowing that one half of the problem brought about by this situation as resolved itself. it’s simple: no one cared, not truly. perhaps it was luck, or their timing, the empire decided their loss was a sacrifice they could afford. ( or their abandonment was not _that_ damaging as compared to other events ) it doesn’t really phase them or upset them knowing that, had they stayed, had they _died_ , the results would not have been much different. no one would care, no one would mourn or miss or think of them -- their bodies left left wherever they fell to rot into the stinking ground -- and they tell themselves that they wouldn’t have cared; they didn’t want to be loved, they wanted to be feared by them anyways. all they wanted was to be remembered, but they couldn’t even have that.

gone.

 _gone_.

they reach out, their mental shields up and as strong as can be -- as though tiptoeing over mouse traps -- and there is nothing but an apparent nothingness. there is nothing there. or, there used to be. there used to be a lingering headache that they learned to ignore after some time during their induction, since it would always be there; the presence of the sith and their unfailing eyes overviewing their every move, watching and waiting to snap at the first sign of failure. just that presence alone had caused some of the others to go mad, that is something neither one can forget. knowing they were never safe, and never truly alone ( _let them find us_ ; half a challenge and half an inevitable truth that would happen ) and that was how it would be.

they’d forgotten about this fear until now, the moment it disintegrated like ash carried off by the winds. it was gone, it was all gone. and it would never come back -- their master. the emperor. all of them -- would never come for them, never bother them unless they who fear the supernatural.

.

.

.

it’s too much to take in; destruction of a so-called supreme battle station. not once, _twice_ . they remember, they remember the first one -- the whispers and the secrecy and ominous unease surrounding it -- they remember almost being afraid to see what it could do; they knew, but like everyone else, they had yet to see its usefulness. and then alderaan -- _force_ , alderaan. the immeasurable destruction was unlike that anything had ever heard of before, the terror which swept through billions and billions of people and then -- and then silence. it was not like a wave, which rises and falls at a slow tempo, it was a knife cutting a thread which held everything together and watching it all collapse onto the floor. an entire planet which was supposed to outlive everything within it and surrounding it, here at one point, then gone. decimated. it was no one’s place to decide the fate of things which made up the galaxy itself; but then again, those sneering imperial superiors liked to dream themselves as gods, all-powerful and controlling.

they remember this sinking, sickish feeling inside. they, who laughed at the misery of others and had felt the life force of others slowly slip from their enemies many times before, couldn’t handle this sensation the moment of impact. there were names and faces and all of them were screaming, then just like that, were gone as if they had never existed to begin with. it was scattered information lost within seconds and never to be obtained again. all of their purposes were destroyed in a way as if they had never even happened. not one face, not a thousand, not even the sensation of an army being felled -- it was billions, unlike that they had ever felt before. with no survivors, no chance. _nothing_.

did it make them weak to feel this way? to become incapable of handling such large masses of death when they themselves were killers who held no remorse for their own crimes? the empire had made them strong once, and apathetic. now, now they feel horror over destruction unlike anything either one could have imagined. did that make them weak -- or did it make them _sane_ to recognize a moral? were there ever even any limits beforehand, a place in which they would draw the line when they were practical dogs at their master’s bidding?

it doesn’t matter now. they’re not sorry to see the station go before it could do anymore damage again.

.

.

.

( was it wrong of them to laugh or to cringe? where was the right in every situation they had been put through -- did they choose correctly? as if there ever were a choice -- and did right or wrong even matter when sometimes it was what they wanted? or what the empire made them think they wanted? _how can we even think for ourselves?_ )

.

.

.

 _vader. the emperor. vader. emperor. gone. vader. dead. emperor. defeated. destroyed_. it goes through their heads over and over. yet the words don’t come out from either one’s mouth, as if mentioning either one’s name will somehow summon their presence in this very room. their master; vicious and black, stoic and inhumane, the unending loop of that mechanical breathing that haunts their dreams. their throats tighten, mouths shut in silence and savoring every breath -- just in case -- just in case he decided they were no longer worthy of functioning windpipes ( sometimes, others lost their tongues. ) and then there was their master’s master; all-knowing and all-powerful and unknown. everything was frighteningly unknown about him. that was the fear which plagued the inquisitorius as a whole -- the fear of the unknown, of being left in the dark and isolated from news.

 _it’s over_ , everyone says with these stupid grins as though they’ve forgotten the extent of the empire’s power, _it’s all over_. as if it were ever that easy. as if it were ever that simple. not when the pillars remain and arrogant pawns are active in other systems, who think themselves as burdens to carry on the so-called imperial legacy, who won’t stop fighting until the end. who can still cause just as much destruction as beforehand. others will come, and they’ll be greedier, crueler.

bit by bit the shock wears away, so they find themselves right back in their normal cynical state as before. calling this the end is premature and thinking the rebels as heroes is ignorant, in their eyes. ( it’s why they’re not defectors -- they didn’t join. they didn’t revolt. they ran, they were _smart_ , they ran at the first chance given. funny as it sounds, they’ve found some dignity in calling themselves _abandoners_. ) it’s not over for them. it’s all too good to be true.

.

.

.

they _should_ be happy. they lived. and those that inflicted cruelty upon them didn’t. all this time they were both brainwashed and convinced into thinking that they would not live long, that all those around them would surely outlive them. and they were wrong. they outlived them all -- all their siblings, all their superiors, all their masters. all of them gone and irrelevant and in the dust, names that will be uttered no more. but not them, they lived.

 _we’re alive. they’re not_ . is that supposed to bring value to the scars that deform their skin or the horrors that tarnished the events at a point in their lives known otherwise as childhood? is this supposed to be justice rearing its face at poor timing? _we’re alive_. and the thing that was supposed to kill them is not.

( the thing that broke them, controlled them, ruined them has gotten its comeuppance, in some form. )

.

.

.

she kisses him for the first time in longest time in the way she kisses him, long and sweet and pressing harshly against his mouth; everything was always discreet or cruel, never tender. no, that was rare. a colossal, calloused hand presses into the small of her back ( everything in comparison, from him to her, was always smaller. lighter. deceiving fragility and light bones -- but she is no sad little songbird -- and he, in spite of himself, in spite of it all tries his best more often than not to be careful. ) and she attaches herself to him. the other hand of his is lost in the tangles of inky black hair, soft and mesmerizing and easily knotted -- it’s changed. longer and disheveled, he notices. how unlike him to pay little notice, when he is the one who would play with wisps of it when she laid beside him. and oh, she’d scowl then and say a threat or two ( never move; not if she didn’t want to accidentally lose a handful of her hair ) but it never went anywhere.

those were the days, when sometimes she’d ask in frustration just what was it about her hair of all things he adored so much ( and he would retort, convincingly, he worshipped just as every other bit of her regardless ) and once he’d ask her why she hid her hair; in hindsight, that helmet was useless as armor. _after all, you have a little neck_ or so he’d murmur when he’d lean closer to kiss the frame of her hair. but then, so unlike her normal self, she’d turn away and say she simply couldn’t just show her hair like that; it went against culture. then silence followed. yes, she knows bits about her culture -- the parts that mattered, the bits she could salvage -- and something about that was so uneasy, at least in those days. knowledge like that was dangerous. those were windows implying an outside world, a life outside this one which they were bound by life to.

their kisses are frantic and sweet and desperate, since the world around them as they know it seems to be coming to an end; they should be happy but can’t, not when they know that they will never be safe. not when the galaxy conspires against their existence, not after they have cheated their fates. they _can’t_ be happy but they’ll try.

( is it some kind of sad but surprisingly selfless ploy to please the other? to let them believe that all is well? because if there is one thing surely neither one can do is successfully lie to the other -- not when they know each other all too well. )

kindness is a strange to them both, it startles them both. they used to revel in it, reject it in fear of it making them weaker. but they seem to be doing just fine in falling apart by themselves, between knocking back liquor shots and laughing over all the time wasted in their meaningless passions. thankfully, they are not strangers to each other’s bodies; the familiarity is welcomed. his a mixture of muscle and softness, altogether a ruined canvas of scars. she knows this map, her mouth leads a trail of kisses and can distinguish which ones were the results of combat and which ones she purposely made worse. and her skin isn’t porcelain, she holds her own marks. this occasion is different. they are both tired and their bodies wearing, starved for warmth and welcoming of the other. teeth do not graze across marred skin that has finally healed, his hold leaves few bruises and the ones that do appear are blessed with apologetic kisses on his behalf -- from her sharp collarbone to the ribcage he can feel beneath his fingertips and the hip bones which jut slightly. she’s so thin, almost _sickly_ thin, he can feel it. now he feels like the most selfish man in the galaxy for insisting that he suffers as much as she does; how can he say this, when in his own arms he can finally feel for himself how much she’s deteriorated.

still, _still_ he is utterly convinced and his mind cannot be changed. between the valley of her small breasts and the length of her abdomen, down further and the sweet taste of her lingering on his mouth and fingers while his ears are ringing over the sounds she makes when she is his; _his_. all his. he is convinced she is still the most beautiful woman in the galaxy and he does not need vision to know any better.

her legs are shaking and _for once_ , for once she is helpless while he is breathless; it’s been so long. and never have they been gentle like this. there’s nothing timid, only uncertainty. to think, they had been laughing just before -- hysterical, ridiculous laughter when their lungs could afford it, when they weren’t starved for air between kisses -- at themselves and over what they have become. now there was none of that. he slides in carefully and after the first thrust, a spark elicits. memories flood back and they recall this dance all too long; she seems to come back to life, that old vivacity, harsh and relentless but loved regardless, breathes fire. force, they remember the days -- racing heartbeats and time always short, bare and exposed and vulnerable, starved and desperate; there was passion, always, and the thrill in the fear of being caught but knowing they’ll get away anyways. _i love you_. it was a strangled cry between sweet nothings or sometimes he would say in another tongue. now neither says it, not because it is resented or that they can’t. it just feels unneeded right now. even after climax, neither says it.

( they don’t need to; they already know. if they didn’t, would they be here now? would they be alive together like this? )

they remain like that; entangled limbs and lingering, savoring the heat and basking in the afterglow -- catching breaths and fingers wandering -- as time moves slowly. it occurs to them that this could have been enough to exhaust their bodies into uninterrupted sleep. they’ll sleep through dawn if they can, enamored and wrapped around the other’s hold from, unwilling to leave. and this time, there is nothing which is making them depart. there is nothing that must make them leave -- no slipping away before the first peek of sunlight, no discretion and careful dressing in silence.

they are creatures born of violence and grief, without remorse and without a care for anything else aside from themselves; they aren’t supposed to know what peace is. their resolve hasn’t changed either, these victories are premature and they are not safe. for all they know, they’ll never be safe. they’re trying to be happy but it seems there is something so superficial in it, in spite of the intoxicating aura of their surroundings and the joy which permeates the air. at least there is this untainted pleasure still.

she nestles closer, like two strange pieces fitting together -- her face driven into the crook of his neck as his arms snake around her waist. it isn’t spoken but it is thought of, more than once and in between uneven paced heartbeats.

they don’t know what real peace is, but they like to hope it will be something like this.

.

.

.


	5. pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's funny, he thinks. she almost looks like she's in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is atrociously late and i am so sorry.

_all of this will be gone someday_   
_you and me and everyone_   
_the memories and the traces, and for the afterglow_ _  
all of this will be gone someday_

.

.

.

they cherish these happy moments, however few they come.

even when that cynical spirit still lingers in them both, harping at them with reminders that this peace is hollow and it will leave soon enough. things will never go back to the way as they were before but after this era of comfortable silence passes, this future will not be much better. and to think, yet another ghost of at their door come back to haunt them, there was a time when neither cared for peace. neither wanted it. where was the use it when they channeled their fuel from rage and hate? peace was, if anything, the weakening antidote so they reveled from the idea of it. no, they never enjoyed being belittled and made to serve incompetent superiors, but they were restless souls who wanted something to do. someone to _kill_. something to sate their appetites, which was never satisfied regardless, because if the lear of the other’s flesh came at inconvenient timing they needed something else to do in the meantime.

( it was a cycle, a maddening cycle. )

so once again, they’ll choke on their words. irony had already wrung their necks ‘til the skin was red and raw, and just kept coming back over and over. at this rate, they’re _drowning_. they do not suffer so much as they find themselves becoming increasingly annoyed; those wise words about being cautious when you’re young or else consequences will make a reappearance aren’t just lectures made to bend the ears of younglings for having reckless fun.

but how sad is it, that they are still young when they may not look it; when their bodies are canvases, marred masterpieces, and there are lines - though far and few - on their faces from scowls, from the touch of influence of the dark side.

( the force. allegiances. it’s complicated now. they don’t think much of it; because they can’t really say they’ve changed. they’ve stored their swords to collect dust, but the crimson light doesn’t sit underground. it’s still there. it still _tempts_ them. besides, they know they are not good people and can’t be. )

luckily, these are not the thoughts which haunt them in the mornings.

these mornings are unfamiliar to them; both the context and the sensation. the soft sheets on an aged bed frame that won’t win decorative awards but holds them both, the warmth of blinding light peeking through crooked blinders drawn together in vain effort, the boiling pot of fresh brewed caf -- black and bitter, _like their souls_ , as if that’s not a joke they’ve never made before -- when someone begrudgingly decides to be the better of the two and go make it. usually it’s him. usually. only because -- small as she may be -- she has mastered the art of theft, in that she greedily snatches the blankets for herself, and exiles him from the bed.

even sleep has gotten better for them, to an extent. after adjusting to the deprivation, it’s still shock when either one manages to sleep decently for a consecutive number of days. of course, that does not mean either one is completely asleep by the beginning brink of dawn. they’re always consciously aware by that point, drifting in and out of a state of laziness and serenity, wanting it to stay like this just a little while longer. an instilled instinct is forcing them awake with reminders that the inquisitorius is not lenient towards petty and immature manners like tardiness ( one time it nearly got them caught, when their clothes were in a disarray and damaged ) and -- and … _oh_. then they remember. it wasn’t as though they had actually forgotten that the empire had fallen, it just doesn’t properly register. it is a day by day process where their minds shut down, the electrical shock jumpstarts their hearts and it starts all over again.

they cower beneath the sheets for as long as they can, as dawn drags itself out further and strengthens with the rise of each sun ( the truth is they are creatures who belong with night; these blinding rays expose them for anyone to find. in the darker they were safer. ) in the other’s hold; it does not always end up this way, and does not always begin this way either. at some point in the night they unconsciously drift towards the other’s hold, like separated magnets making their way right back to where they belong. her tangles of black hair look like spilled ink against the strikingly white sheets, there is a glow which her face basks in when she greets him. he absorbs every inch, every detail for where color lacks. it leaves him breathless. and he’d tell her this if he weren’t already aware that smothering affection is the second fastest way, just below irritable teasings, to get on her nerves. but there is something so gentle, so strange.

it’s funny, he thinks. she looks like she’s in love.

.

.

.

( he takes ahold of her hands and presses kisses onto her fingertips and says not a word of it; it crept up on his tongue last time, having crawled its way up from his throat, a hoarse _‘i love you’_ and surprisingly, she laughed. regardless if it was childish, amusement, mockery, reciprocation -- it was a laugh so unlike her haughty and malicious one, he’s only heard this once or twice. he couldn’t speak much thereafter. )

.

.

.

but out here in the badlands, that sort of sweetness can’t prevail; so with a natural ease, with _years_ of practice, their act changes outside the privacy of a place they have yet to call home but can be assumed as one. in a lawless system where fair’s fair is actually unfair -- everything's a gamble and the selfish still prosper, has their environment really changed besides the company within? -- it turns out they were right about one thing from their days spent at the inquisitorius; the galaxy is cruel, therefore they must become crueler.

their connections which they’ve made from the immeasurable number of nights spent at the bars ( when they weren’t drunk and bickering with one another, now, those were rare nights ) are seedy at best, unpredictable convicts with vile minds at worst; but they all have a common ground, an established routine. they provide a name and they in turn bring back the head or whatever else is left -- but that doesn’t make it bounty hunting, or so they claim. because they’re selective and can always turn away ridiculous offers, because they’re not cheap, and they’re not looking for the attention that bounty hunters so desperately seek.

( half their connections don’t even know their names, the various aliases they’ve created; they only know where to meet them at the right place during the right hour. )

they’re not looking to be remembered, not anymore. they’re content with everything as is, where only the right kind of people are afraid of them ( their connections _know_ not to screw with any kind of payment delay ) and the rest are irrelevant, passing by in their daily lives and paying no mind to them. of course, some glances are _inevitable_. the stark contrasts between the two whether their species or appearances or even the absurd height difference are bound to draw attention, and they know this.

she still revels in it, and he’ll look down and tell her to pay no mind -- he’s nearly earned himself a sucker punch ( or two; when he tells her that she can’t even reach him ) from her wrath.

.

.

.

they pay no heed to the outside world. it’s as if they know that if they devote any attention to the news, to the world outside of the one that concerns them from where they are that they’ll be sucked right back into it; there are reasons they left and never looked back. there are reasons they never took part in the hypocrisy of the rebellion, of devoting their lives to another cause and die for something. they would die only for themselves, and first and foremost, they would _live_. still, rage lingers within. although a feral beast in its prime when put to use against others, the two of them have come to understand it is a surprisingly patient beast that lurks and uses quiet means of temptation in their thoughts to resurrect itself. it waits, it tempts, it lives.

there are some teachings of the dark side that can never be undone, nor be unlearned. they can be ignored or shut away, but never cured. not after all the damage that has been done to them since youth. they burn their uniforms and bury their sabers in desert pits far away from civilization's reach, but the ugliness of the force is aligned in their bodies and their bloodstreams.

it rises through reminders of the empires; through fuzzy transmissions emanating from the bar with fresh leaked reports regarding the trials of surviving high ranking imperials and their charges of violating rights against the galaxy; much like roulette, the result has only one of two outcomes. death or a _convenient_ lesser charge. the old saying holds true even now, that credits are a literal lifesaver in all the right places.

( not here, not in these badlands; were it up to them, the ones they paid no mind to would have quick deaths. and those who scorned them, well … )

still, some will be allowed to live; albeit, in exile, but surrounded by wealth and their families no less. some have the capabilities to change their names but never their ways, never the outlook on those considered below them. to people like _them_ , the imperial dogs.

_find them_ , the voices whisper with such allure. they could, they really could do it. their exceptional talents with the force have not wanned in the years passing. they could easily track them down just through tracing back their life force. sure, some have guards but what good is any feeble man against a sword? they could cut them down, all of them, one by one -- armies falling at their feet just as they have done before, _again and again_.

and sometimes, as if conspiring alongside these voices, they turn to liquor out of fear to drown these voices. but much like gasoline, it only ignites fires of other correlating emotions -- rage, of course, thrives.

.

.

.

their drunken conversations have a colorful range, depending on the circumstances of the day and if a promised payment followed through. complaints of the status of the galaxy or reflective memories on morbidly funny events usually signify bad days. spontaneous anger resulting in them turning on each other, blaming the other for ruining their potential and their chances at stealing the grand inquisitior’s sought for title and somehow the sole reason the empire fell signifies a _very_ bad day. the somber, quiet, unusual remarks are always something else.

“i miss our brother.” she slurs once, seemingly from out of nowhere. he turns to her, startled.

_“which one?”_ he responds, clueless.

( and for that matter ---- how many of them are left? )

.

.

.

aside from lost siblings, they’ve encountered familiar faces once or twice. fellow unwilling members of the empire -- no more than mere grunts and forgettable faces who paled at the sight of them -- too forgettable to be dragged into the spotlight of the ongoing trials yet too dangerous to continue living a normal life. these are the ones who don cloaks somehow thinking they are completing the essence of anonymity, when in reality they are the first to catch a wandering eye. their faces pale, grief stricken and starved for another shot to drown their own sorrows, they never speak. they never acknowledge another being in the room.

is it remorse for their actions that which they down the alcohol for, or is it wallowing in self pity about how they have lost whatever shred of normalcy might have existed prior to the fall?

he doesn’t care, and she nearly sneers at the sight of them. none of them cared before, absolutely none of them. and none could play the card of ignorance very well; how could one _not_ know what they were getting themselves into?

( see, at least in their defense they can acknowledge the horrors of what they’ve done -- it was what they were raised into, trained to take pride into. )

.

.

.

it’s difficult for both of them to try and move forward with their lives, when the majority of their teachings were based on the idea of never letting go of anything of their motions. this aspect refers to only negative emotions, but it also ended up resulting in the inability for them to be inseparable from the other. they were driven by hatred, fueled through with passion and through that, it embodied their reason for existence. that reason didn’t equate to a will, because they were just bodies. they were, in an essence, expendable soldiers and no one gave a damn if any of them wanted to be alive for this or not ( although if they were _human_ , perhaps someone might have. )

this was never intended to become a life for them, they were not supposed to move forward. they were never supposed to let go of any of this. this was about survival. this was a means to just try and _survive_.

but the feeling of escape has been lost on them since the empire fell; it’s been four years since they escaped ( not defected. not turned. _left_ is too dismissive. ) and approaching three since the empire fell, or so they’ve counted.

_years_. and after all this time spent, what does freedom taste like exactly? they’ve yet to figure it out, though suggestions are tossed in a general direction every now and then. is it the sensation of rain trickling down and droplets bouncing against their skin on the rare occasion of a calm, cloudy morning? the taste of careless liquor on shot glasses from run down resorts and cantinas who don’t give a damn about your identity aside from when you don’t pay? the euphoria in taking a moment to absorb the fresh air and surrounding environment, for all its lacking beauty, made up for in space because of the desolation and sense of being forgotten from the galaxy beyond? the blood drawn from split lips and bruised knuckles from reckless jobs gone awry ( but never fail to end as wanted ) into fights? the choice in taking as they please without giving anything back, even if she regrets those vile nutrition bars that have done nothing but render her a vomiting mess? is it serenity? is it the lawlessness? is it found on the taste of the other’s mouth from however many kisses they take as they please?

it’s something they’ve yet to figure out, but they’re figuring they’re getting somewhere.

.

.

.

he wakes one morning to find her gone from his arms. the bed’s gone cold and there’s no oppressive force that won’t stop him from seizing the sheets and in that moment he knows, _something’s wrong_. with a near startled jump he jolts upwards, vision blurred and never one to welcome the unwanted rays of light beaming through blinders ( though he’s far kinder than she when it comes to the morning arrival ) and still, she is nowhere to be seen. his first instincts are to assume that something awful occurred in the night and therefore he must slaughter everyone within proximity until he is given the answers of her whereabouts, but no one ever said his first instinct to speak was the rational one. so rarely does he ever listen to that one.

he finds her in the tiny makeshift area of this complex that could be considered a kitchen, complete with bare essentials but lacking altogether in quality aside from a usually functional stovetop. she’s quiet, either unwilling to acknowledge him or lost in her thoughts, caf in hand that has long gone cold and was never sipped once. it was only made so that the cup itself could serve as a source of warmth for her hands, which are trembling ever so slightly.

and when she looks to him, she seems angry. _doesn’t she always?_ then it melts to something else. to confusion, to grief, to shock. her features scream disarray over a situation he feels helpless to fix, yet compelled to ask of anyways. is it his fault? she tends to think so, but sometimes it holds true. she looks petrified, her eyes are tired but full of childish fright ( they’re still young, it’s easy to forget for anyone, especially them. but they are young. ) and mouth agape, trying and failing to appear unmoved or stoic. he’s about to ask, he barely has the time to open his mouth to speak when she beats him to it ----

“i’m pregnant.”

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	6. rebuild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and for a moment, he thinks, they might be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, sweet, semi-belated christmas gift of a chapter.

_surely goodness and mercy will follow me on the days of my life_   
_i walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul_   
_but i can’t walk on the path of the right because i’m wrong_ _  
( but i know when i die, my soul is damned )_

.

_._

_._

stillness.

whereas she’s shaking, he’s incapable of doing anything. he cannot speak, move, he nearly forgets to breathe. _how?_ that would not be a suitable response, nor an appropriate question. he would be wasting his breath by making claims that they had been so careful, since they had been anything but. between golden days and silver nights, some laced with liquor and others less so, with slow growing tenderness amidst recklessness never had the thought crossed their minds. it had not been discussed nor wanted, but locked away in the farthest archives of their minds was knowledge of it.

of _last time_.

it wasn’t an improbability, certainly never an impossibility -- being different humanoid species made the chances less likely so, but never erased them altogether -- since it happened. _it happened_ . they never spoke of it, because during the silence in the horrors of it all they decided there was nothing left to talk about. the circumstances had been unfortunate. it was never calculated. when it came to the thought of consequences of their affairs, he thinks back, their worst fears revolved around being discovered. it was about manipulation and the act they displayed to shake away suspicions, because vader ( he winces, it’s a name he hasn’t had any reason to think of in _years_ ) would have crushed their throats without any warning. never was there a reason beforehand to think of a child accidentally being born into this madness and disparity. it could have never happened; someone would notice, someone would say something. the med droids were always programmed to report any notices regarding changes in health, how could she have hidden the condition, or thereafter. it could have never happened anyways. _it was over long before either one knew it_.

there was never grief, it was not a loss, it was nothingness. and that was the end of that.

“are you certain?” is all he can bring himself to say, wanting to be near her but finds himself frozen on the spot. she sets the caf down, as its usefulness as warmth has long run out, but keeps her eyes glued to the reflection from the darkened surface.

“i’m eight weeks, if i rounded correctly.” she answers back, aware that she’s speaking, but somehow struggles to hear her own voice. it goes hand in hand with struggling to actually comprehend the situation itself. all that goes through her mind are numbers and processes, counting the days and weeks and everything in between, wondering if something is amiss or if her estimation is off. for what little she knows can be attributed to the fact that trivial matters like reproductive health was never exactly priority knowledge. she thought herself sterilized, between harsh needles that prodded her skin in her youth never knowing if it was a vaccination, another blood draw, or perhaps poison to terminate her quietly then and there; and then the first incident occurred.

how long ago had that been? how many years had passed since? it would have been, what? six, no, seven years old now? _it would’ve_. “ -- which means there’s only thirty two weeks left, assuming this is a normal gestation cycle… and all goes accordingly.”

her voice trails, sounding so unnatural and distant. he doesn’t want to make her specify what she means by that last remark, about the phrase _accordingly_ . that term goes along with those who are prepared, or at the very least, accustomed to some degree. they are anything but. they didn’t evade death with tact and grace, it was impulsive and ran on pure luck. their so-called occupation right now fares no better than the least -- the difference is that they’re _paid_ to kill -- and their sleep cycles are more sporadic than their behavior towards the other. is it worth remembering the chilling cries of force sensitive infants and toddlers who were frightened of their mere presences, whose first memories -- _if_ they lived long enough to recall them -- would be of these two being the ones responsible for taking them from their families.  

they’re _monsters_ , to place it kindly. children cower beneath the sheets of their beds when they mistake shadows for monsters; how could they live with themselves in bringing one into this galaxy, where the monsters were vivid and real and right before it?

“do you - do you want this?” he asks as he seems to regain control of his own body, making up for lost time by taking the seat beside hers, taking hold of one of her own smaller, still shaking hands. “you don’t have to… not if you don’t want to. not if you think it will only end with you getting hurt again.”

with those words, a bittersweet smile finds its way on her face.

oh, the _irony_. after years of lacerations and purposely inflicted wounds, after bruises and bloodied patterns left on their skin, and sores and strains embedded in their muscles intended to last for days. she uncrosses her legs and takes a quick second glance down at her bare thighs -- having become accustomed to sleeping in only his shirts -- where even in this dim light, she can see the hideous blemishes where burnt skin once lay. they had been young and stupid, so stupid then; living out on the edge of so-called glory, expecting to die at any moment, animalistic tendencies and blind rage initiated from the dark side leading to this so called bright idea about marking each other.

it was stupid, absolutely stupid, to the point where she can shake her head with a mix of amusement and shame. but it had been one of the few choices then they had decided to do for themselves, when all their lives and -- at that time -- how it would end had been decided for them. decisions, which came far and few, that were the smallest hints of enjoyments or the smallest fraction of the sweet taste of freedom then.

and in the end, what had they lost? what had they gained? all that pride for those war scars vanished, their meaning and intimidation rendered worthless save for hushed whispers from sparse first glances. all those deaths, all those murders in the name of their empire had changed only in value; dead was still dead. _dead was still dead_.

they fled when it dawned upon them that their world as they knew it was falling apart, with the intent of taking them with it. this life of theirs was going to kill them, it was killing them.

( it had killed a piece of her, too little too late. )

“i... think i do, actually.”

.

.

.

there had never been a heartbeat last time, or so she tells him, and that had been the initial giveaway.

last time she had known earlier, almost as if from the beginning days ( he calls bluff on that one, but shuts up when she tells him she knows her own anatomy better than any _man_ ) because of her incessant, near perfect track of her cycles; a single missed day was alarming, two had practically confirmed her immediate suspicions long before the physical symptoms started.

and in all the prolonged weeks she had foolishly waited to tell, treading the subject with him across black ice with vague hints, never had a heartbeat began.

she hadn’t known better then. she couldn’t have assumed the worst, in fact, she assumed nothing at all. somehow, she convinced herself to keep the status of her condition as far back in her mind as possible, attempting to achieve the impossible by forgetting. it worked sometimes, for a few minutes. but sometimes the force and paranoia work together well, and escalated wariness always kept her on her toes.

( either way, the outcome had been inevitable -- from a medical perspective; he knows her better than that. even though she never says it and dismisses it as being nothing, he knows she blames herself til this very day. )

in this case years had passed; things like staying alive and keeping a low profile became prioritized as opposed to keeping compulsive track of her cycles. under this much stress, they came and went as sporadically as they pleased. illnesses could be traced back to the nutrient bars they were occasionally living off of, and even when they weren’t, she’d gradually found herself desiring for even when she knew the consequences of it. but she was always one with a habit for law-breaking and doing as she pleased, even when she damn well knew the outcomes would be _bad_. tenderness and soreness were not unfamiliar sensations, in fact they mingled well with the still-healing bruises of her body, even when this new source came from her breasts.

( she never voiced complaints, aside from when his hold on her squeezed too tightly as they slept; _force_ , it hurt. but she could always do worse to him if it pleased her. )

suspicion came to her like some other-worldly aura to her, reaching out and ebbing at her always active senses. something felt so… _amiss_. things had been unusually quiet these past few days; she could vividly recall a pessimistic joke from him, wondering when it would all go wrong. ( the story of their lives, she supposes. one good event at the cost of five situations simultaneously going wrong all at once; always wondering when the hurricanes would come during serene days with blank skies. ) and when the curiosity became all too much, she found herself doing something she normally never did. it was mostly because of paranoia, the fear of being found by something or someone else out there that would detect it. eyes closed and physically calm -- her mind anything but tranquil -- she seemed to reach into the force to find what it was that was in her mind.

and, as if coming from within, something seemed to call back.

a sharp intake of breath, yet forgetting to breathe, that was when she woke in the middle of the night. something responded. something responded from _within_. so, reasonably, she had thrown the sheets off and paced back and forth for hours in the ‘fresher -- unaware of imminent dawn, surprised of her lover’s obliviousness as he snored softly in the other room -- debating what to do. despite doing what she had just done minutes before, all her abilities felt archaic and out of practice. for once, she dreaded the idea of reiterating these skills again.

( maybe, maybe it was because she already knew then and there. )

.

.

.

when she stands, the first thing she does is take his hands and guide them; graciously ignoring the remark of “i am not _that_ type of blind” from him, _trying_ to appease to the sentimental idea of all of this. it feels so silly, all so out of place. this isn’t them and they’re surely making a terrible mistake.

( it would not be the first exactly, now, would it? )

she makes his hands travel down the length of her abdomen, and then he notes the detail of a slight concave shape that has taken form; mystified, he wonders how he missed all of this himself. it’s so small, nearly nonexistent, that one would have to literally feel the rise and fall to note the difference. he doesn’t need to be told that the change will become more apparent, more immediate. he can _see_ that for himself just fine. although he still says nothing else after the first remark, not even to question when she places the palms of his hands where the slight rise is most prominent. it’s far too early to detect movement -- hybrid or not, thankfully there is no accelerated growth like other heinous, far more extreme combinations -- but he realizes that’s not what she wants him to see; to _hear_.

there hadn’t been a heartbeat last time; this time, there was.

it was not synchronized to the beat of her own; hers carries its own prominent tempo, seemingly sounding slower yet louder with a dull continuous thump-thump, as compared to this faint, more frantic one; a rapid, pitter-patter, working itself hard and fast and attempting to be loud. as if it is trying to make itself known, to state it is alive.

alive.

the word sounds so strange, so unfamiliar to him. but the odd thing is that, in actuality, it _is_ familiar. it is something they have became acquainted with beforehand. from when they first escaped, from when they first survived. alone and scarred and paranoid, always edging on the verge of being caught or not, waiting. waiting for an absolution of some sort, a prophet beyond the horizon or a martyr to do something drastic; anyone but them. they had done their bidding, they had been dragged into this mess and left with skin rubbed raw and bloodied by the weights that dragged their unwilling feet, they had seen and done the worst of things that would go untold. they did everything as they were supposed to, except die. no, they did not die. they chose to live, they survived. then, they outlived.

is this the part now where they _live?_

he closes his eyes -- lost in the near melodic sound of the two heartbeats at once, a warmth emanating in his chest that damn near scares him first before he comes around to it -- and, for a moment, is almost convinced. no doubt, this moment will pass. the nightmares will inevitably follow -- as they always do -- in due time to tell them otherwise.

but at the brink of dawn where rays peek through blinders and seem to give a softened glow on her skin and everything is still, there is no malice nor vice.

and for a moment, he thinks, they might be alright.

.

.

.


End file.
